So Long, Lonesome
by Azulsky
Summary: A conversation in some bar in some state, at night.


A/N: What started as a freewrite turned into this. I hope you enjoy whatever the hell this is. I know it's a bit funky but then this character is very much so, which, I think, makes it work. There aren't any spoilers and there is not any pairing.

Please enjoy, and, of course, _Supernatural_ is not mine. Never was and will not ever be.

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I've got a false hip, means my right hip joint is made of metal. Aluminum and Titanium actually, I wish it were all Titanium since I wouldn't worry every minute that the damn thing would give in, and I go toppling down those stairs over there. See them? Yeah, they ain't pretty and I've got to walk up and down those damn things every day like twenty times. What is an old woman like me supposed to do?

Whatcha say? Where did I get the hip? Oh this old thing? Well, I got it from some fresh faced doctor at that hospital across town. What you should be asking me, honey, is where I lost my first hip, the flesh and cartilage that should be where the Titanium is now.

You're cute. Anyone ever tell you that? Your smile melts hearts like fire in a freezer. Oh come on, that's not a bad way of puttin' it, don't laugh. I ain't my father, I never really could get my way with words. The man would have made a good car salesman attorney, you can be both, don't give me lip, honey, you can be both. If you don't make it as a lawyer you can sell cars, if you don't make it as a car salesman you can sell souls. It's a good way of looking at it. Anyway, you derailed my train of thought, ah, my father. He was good with words, was a Literature teacher up there at the university. Always told my mom and I that if there was ever a dispute that needed taking charge of, always use your words first, you can never run out of them. Resort to fists if the words ain't catching. You can only throw a fists a few times before you run out of breath and the other guy beats you.

Right, you asked me about my hip.

No, I didn't lose my hip. I know exactly where it is. It is on the coast of Vietnam.

I ain't shitting you, honey, I fucked up my hip in Vietnam. Damn thing didn't like all the work I put it through back in 65'. I was a nurse. No, honey, I didn't fight. I'm a girl after all and they don't let us fight back then. Course, they don't let them fight now, just carry all that lovely ammunition into battle. Convoys they call them.

I was a nurse, did all this running between villages, and it caught up with me somewhere along the hundredth mile or something like that anyway.

Do you know what words do over there?

I met this guy, John, probably was named John. Hell, it's a bad name, way too common for me. I know when I like a name. I never named my son that; he wouldn't stand out from a crowd. Anyway, this kid, John, well he ain't a kid now, don't really know why I still call him a kid. He's got to have his own now, maybe even some grandchildren if he's lucky like me. So this John, if I remember correctly, he got hurt really bad. Took some damage to his face and throat, still would have scars from this now, that's how bad it was. I was helping him, couldn't leave because all I could give him was pressure. There was so much going on that day. Too much if you asked me, because normally I could make out who was who whenever we fought, but some of the village people were pretty split on who they wanted to fight for, some helped us, others didn't. In the middle of that I stayed. Tried to fix what I could with him.

God, why can't I remember his last name? That's what they go by when they're in the service.

There was so much going on I didn't pay attention to any of it. I couldn't or else I'd get boggled down by it all. I stayed right where I was, blood on my hands, gauze scrapping my fingertips. His neck was so warm compared to everything else. In all of this the kid tried to talk. Can you imagine that? In all of that he tried to tell me something.

My dad always told me that words were always more important than fists. If this kid wanted to speak, I damn well listen.

What? Oh, what did he say? Calm down, honey, I'm telling you a story. There's this thing called a sequence of events. I got to get to it within the right order.

This is when I hurt my hip. As I leaned in to hear what he was trying to say, I ducked out of some bullets, which I didn't even see coming, mind you. None of them hit their mark. That's not what is important, what is, was their partners behind them. The bullets that followed were readjusted and they caught me in my hip a few times over. So now I was on top of the guy, bleeding all over him as he bled all over me. Thank God this was before Aids, right? I'm surprised the kid didn't go deaf from my scream.

Anyone who tells you that a bullet don't hurt is lying through their teeth. It hurts like a thousand white hot knives.

You know what that feels like? The bullets _and_ the knives? What kind of business are you in, honey, that would have you know that type of pain?

Last time I checked, hunting didn't involve getting shot by the prey.

Cheeky bastard, yeah I know guns. They need a partner to go off. Never on their own. That's why I am not afraid of guns, but of the people behind them.

You aren't going to tell me your story are you? I tell you one of mine, it's customary to tell one of your own. Shame. I get the feeling you could scare the pants off of me. Not that I wouldn't mind. If I was younger, and not married, of course.

Thirty two years next January to that man over other. Yeah, behind the bar. Ain't he sweet? His daddy owned this place and Paul took over some time back. This is all his, and respectively mine.

Cherie, nice to meet ya Dean.

Oh no, I got a job at the hospital. Once a nurse, always a nurse. Been helping out at the hospice care over there. I figure if I can watch people die, I might as well use that gift. I know a lot of people that could handle what I do. It's not easy. I don't know how, but I was born to with that wonderful ability. Ain't it grand?

Yeah, I don't get it.

What? Oh the kid, John? Yeah, his last name? I said before it's hard to recall. Your daddy fought there too?

Really, ya don't say? Another John. You think the same one? Well, wouldn't that be grand? What's your name, honey?

Winchester? Never could escape them, could I? What? Oh Guns. Never could escape them. No his name wasn't Winchester. I can't remember what is was, but I do know what it ain't. Sorry, honey, I can't give you a grand ol' story about your pops.

It's near closing time and I've defiantly drank your skinny ass under the table. Don't get all hot and bothered, I've been sitting in a bar longer than you've been able to drive your own stick shift.

What? Oh, the kid, yes, he did tell me something.

Looks like last call, honey, you better get going. Paul hates closing later than he should. We like our alone time here, if you catch my drift.

What did the kid say? You still care even if he's not your John? You're sweet. Keep that, honey, you're going to need it later.

I sure am. No one's ever going to write a book about me and my boring life but I like it. I'm proud, happy and very drunk and sure am glad to meet you Dean. I hope you remember this in the morning. You won't, probably. I've drank service men under the table and into the bowels of hell. Some of them still have headaches even after thirty years.

What did he say? You keep asking me. Tell you what, honey, if you remember all this in the morning and you still care enough, come on over and I'll tell you what that kid, John, who has grandchildren now, if he was lucky enough, told me all those years ago.

Goodnight, hon. Yeah, you too.


End file.
